


Yellow

by Tinevisce



Series: V.I.B.G.Y.O.R [5]
Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23622892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinevisce/pseuds/Tinevisce
Summary: “What does it say?”Aman hugged Kartik closer. “It’s one of Tagore’s”If he closed his eyes, Aman was still able to hear a faint echo of the simple, joyous melody of the song from when he had heard it last years ago.Aalo aamaar, aalo ogo…“Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, the light that has taken root in my heart!Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light plays, my darling, with the chords of my heart;Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. Heaven has drowned its banks and the world is flooded with joy”
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Series: V.I.B.G.Y.O.R [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686157
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37





	Yellow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monami/gifts), [dhyanshiva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhyanshiva/gifts), [I_Shouldnt_Be_Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Shouldnt_Be_Here/gifts).



> Yellow is excitement and bubbling hope for new beginnings and new discoveries in life.

YELLOW

The late afternoon sun shone through gaps in the curtains and the canopy around their bed, illuminating Aman’s face in a yellow-orange haze as he lay next to Kartik. Aman’s face was completely relaxed in sleepy languor and Kartik couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to his temple.

“ _Poora karta hai tu mujhe_ ,” Kartik declared, throwing a possessive arm around his lover to draw him closer.

Aman’s answering smile was fond. “No, I don’t”

“ _Accha_?”

Aman shifted and wriggled so he could face Kartik fully, “No”

His smile darkened with desire, turned into a wolfish grin that made arousal unfurl somewhere deep in Kartik’s belly- and then in a flash disappeared into the duvet.

Aman’s voice was muffled as he spoke from somewhere between Kartik’s legs, “ _Tu hi bolta rehta hai na sabko_ , you’re both Shiv and Shakti?”

Kartik’s affirmative response came out at an octave higher than his usual register.

“Shakti as the Kundalini energy stays coiled inside everyone’s _Muldhara_ right _here_ ”

Whatever Kartik had to say in response to that was swallowed up by the broken gasp he let out.

“When She uncoils and travels up, She goes through the _Svadhisthana,_ _Manipura_ , _Anahata_ , _Vishuddhi_ , _Ajna,_ ” Aman traces the path of the chakras by leaving feather-light kisses on flushed skin, using his weight to hold down Kartik’s bucking body.

Once he reaches the top of Kartik’s head, he nuzzles the mop of dark hair before pressing a kiss there too. “She finds Shiva here at the _Sahasra_ and they join in perfect bliss”

Kartik surges up in a sudden burst of energy and flips them over so _Aman_ is the one being straddled. “ _Param sukh_ _bhog karaataa hu tujhe, bas ruk_!”

* * *

Kartik Singh is a mood in and of himself.

He is also, as Aman has discovered over the course of their relationship, incapable of being stopped from setting _a_ mood when the fancy strikes his pretty head. Not a mood, a _mehfil_ , the Kartik in his head supplies with a flourish as Aman sighs.

He is sat on their bed; the only lights on are the various low-power lamps and fairy lights he has scattered through their apartment. He is meant to be lounging on the bed with a glass of wine (what he has is very cheap port that’s going to make his head swim if he isn’t careful about pacing himself) while the _real_ Kartik dances for him.

Asha Bhosle’s voice croons coquettishly from the tiny speaker set on the table, _Ek sirf hum hi may ko aankhon se pilatein hain_

Kartik makes his eyebrows dance in tune to the _ghazal_ from his spot on the floor while lip-synching to the lyrics.

Well, Aman is pretty _zaalim_ as _bairi piyaa_ ’s go, so he decides to say the one thing that will cut Kartik to the core. “Don’t those bushy eyebrows get in the way of that though?”

If it were a film, a needle would have scratched a record. It wasn’t, so Asha Bhosle continued to croon as deep guffaws burst out of Aman at the look of utter betrayal on Kartik’s face. He scrambled to set his glass down at the bedside table and bodily pulled his incensed boyfriend into his lap.

A kiss to Kartik’s hair, a nuzzle at his earlobe- and _done_. His boyfriend is a boneless, limp noodle in his arms: he’s very easy to operate, Aman’s boyfriend, one just needed to discover the cheat codes. The weight of the taller man pressing against him is reassuring.

Enthroned thus, (Aman can tell) Kartik is surveying their apartment, this domain they share; so he surveys it with him.

Part of one wall is taken up by a massive, dark shelving unit he has been filling up with old books while the other part has been filled with framed, vintage prints of Gods and Goddesses (Shiv and Shakti dominate the milieu, although Krishna grins impishly from several frames).

Foregoing the harsh light of the CFL bulbs, most of the illumination comes from dimmer, warmer lamps and fairy lights strung through the apartment. In deference to practicality, Kartik has a stronger reading lamp on the table that does double duty as their dining area as well as their desk.

Their bed is the focal point of the space; it had taken all their combined DIY prowess to rig up a rectangular frame of spring wires above the bed from the ceiling- and Aman had picked out iridescent sarees, shawls and dupattas and converted them into makeshift drapes; a way to completely close off the outside world.

Most of this was Aman’s vision, drawing from repressed desires buried so deep he had all but forgotten he ever had them in the first place. Dim lights that allowed the shadows to flirt with them; fabrics and colours that shimmered and danced, books well loved and well read that had touched who knew how many lives; artists’ impression of what the Divine looked like.

Yes, this was Aman’s vision of home: but he saw no visions and dreamt no dreams that didn’t have Kartik occupying pride of place by his side. It was true that Aman loved the fabrics for their sheen and colour, but the drapes around their bed were there so Kartik found his migraines easier to bear behind their darkness. It was true that those were books and paintings that Aman liked, but they were also there because Kartik during his nights of insomnia found it easier to relax in closed-off spaces that were full of clutter; spartan emptiness made him nervous.

Aman realised suddenly that the playlist had already continued onto the next song.

_Maana ki doston ko nahi, dosti ka paas_

_Lekin kya ke gair ka,_

_Ehsaan lijiye_

“ _Koi adhoora nahi hota hai,_ Kartik. _Lekin shayad jab hum apne hi hisson ko dabaate rehte hain, apne aap ko badalne ki koshish kartein hain, shayad tab khud ko aadha-adhoora mehsoos karne lagtein hain. Aur duniya ko bhi yahi adhoorapan dikhta hai_ ”

Kartik has spent long enough tracing the lines of Aman’s thought that it doesn’t take him too long to parse the non-sequitur. He could spend countless nights listening to Aman talk like this, has spent countless nights doing exactly that, in fact. He remains silent, waiting for Aman to complete the train of his thoughts.

“ _Pyaar kisiko poora karna nahi hota, balki kisiko poora hone ka ehsaas dilaanaa hai_ , it’s about celebrating that completeness together”

Kartik decides to break the moment by stealing Aman’s glass of wine and taking a loud, obnoxious sip. He gestures to the blank wall facing the bed. “ _Isko poora hone ka ehsaas nahi dilaanaa hai_?”

Aman huffs a breath against his earlobe making him shiver slightly. “I have plans for that wall”

* * *

Said plans had been weeks in the making and had taken all of Aman’s proclivity for sneaking around. In the end, he had had to press a rather reluctant Devika into service too: but Aman could be ruthless when it came to getting his way and had no compunction against reminding her that Kartik had been ‘violently’ beaten up while trying to help her to elope with Ravi.

(She was currently engaged to Ravi because her father had taken one look at Kartik and decided then and there that any Ravi, Hari or Shankar would be an infinitely better choice. Kartik had been making overtures of friendship towards the old man ever since. Over phone. At midnight. In a girl’s sultry voice)

Finally though, Aman had managed to put everything together before Kartik came home on Friday three days later.

“Shit”

Taking up most of the wall opposite to the bed, so it would be the first thing their eyes would see after waking up, was an enormous corkboard strung with zig-zagging trails of fairy lights: the gentle, amber haze illuminating an enormous collage of pictures, post-cards, little hand-written notes and random baubles like ticket stubs for concerts and films.

Aman fell back as Kartik stepped closer to properly read what was on the board, and-

“Shit,” Kartik said again.

These were- these were messages from all the people he had helped to find better lives throughout his years in Delhi. Rainbows and hearts smiled back at him, doodles of him as a superhero decked up in the colours of Pride, deeply personal messages of gratitude and affection; ticket stubs for two that said, _We’d never be able to enjoy a film together if it hadn’t been for you_.

_Thank you._

_We love you._

_You saved us._

Choked by the riptide of emotion surging up to overwhelm him completely, Kartik blindly reached out and found Aman by his side; his port in every storm, answer to prayers so sacred he had never even dared to breathe them out loud.

He bent down and buried his face in Aman’s chest and took a deep, steadying breath as Aman rubbed circles on his back. Safely ensconced in his partner’s embrace he regained a modicum of control over himself and peeked back at the board.

At the center, on black cardstock in sunshine yellow paint was a poem in flowing, cursive Bengali. “That must be from Aashima”

“Ashima,” Aman quietly corrected from beside him while Kartik blinked at him in surprise, “I had a lot of Bengali neighbours growing up,” he explained, “and one of them, a very sweet lady, taught me the language when I was child. I wouldn’t be able to speak it anymore, but I can still read and understand it”

“What does it say?”

Aman hugged Kartik closer. “It’s one of Tagore’s”

If he closed his eyes, Aman was still able to hear a faint echo of the simple, joyous melody of the song from when he had heard it last years ago.

_Aalo aamaar, aalo ogo…_

“ _Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, the light that has taken root in my heart!_

_Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light plays, my darling, with the chords of my heart;_

_Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. Heaven has drowned its banks and the world is flooded with joy.”_

He pressed a kiss to his lover’s hair. Kartik was weeping.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I used Tagore in this. The Bongs reading this, please don't end me.
> 
> I'm a little nervous about this one from a characterisation point of view because I feel my Aman is moving into uncharted territory here. No indication at all he's into the artsy, intellectual stuff I've written him liking.  
> But to my eternal defense, no "sakht launda" worth his salt asks his lover, "Dar lag rha hai" so gently. :)
> 
> Or rather, let's break stereotypes and say you can totally be an angry young man, a sakht launda as well be in touch with your feelings.


End file.
